Adventures In Unemployment

(September Edition is here. February Edition is here.)

Un, Under, Over Edition

First came the Un. Unemployment, the gift of soft pillows, of endless cups of tea, the quiet mornings of empty driveways and empty homes. It can be post-apocalyptic to walk suburbia during a workday morning. Row after row of houses abandoned for 8 hours every day, 5 days a week. The first time around I was in a city neighborhood, and there was always noise, always people. Seventh Street, Plaza-Midwood, Elizabeth. I could walk them all day and never be alone. This time it was just me and the small brown birds, the occasional rabbit, and once, one cold, foggy morning, three white-tailed deer clacking across the sidewalk to greener backyards.

Then came the Under. I worked, but not enough. An article here and there. Under-the-table editing for a bit of spending money. A contract position that was underpaid but steady for a few months. A blog post, a photo, a blurb. It was sometimes exciting, sometimes dull. All the while, I looked for full-time work. I was digging holes in a desert looking for a spring.

Multiple résumés, cover letters, inquiring emails, applications. Smiling through well-meaning advice from employed family and friends ("Have you tried Monster.com?"). Submitting writing samples, portfolios, editing tests. And more than once, squeezing into a business-appropriate pencil skirt and high-collared shirt, my feet in heels, clacking across marbled lobbies into office towers for interviews that would lead to nowhere.

It seemed an Over was ever just out of my reach. Work harder. Ignore the sweat and bleeding palms and dig deeper for a bountiful well. A field of holes was behind me; cracked dry earth ahead. Keep digging, keep scraping, keep going. Is that damp earth? No.

It was an ocean, it was vast and salty on my face, there was an old man building a boat and there were animals swimming by in pairs. Where was once a desert was suddenly a deluge. I was asked to edit a magazine for the summer while the editor-in-chief was on maternity leave. I was asked come in to do some temp work at my old job at the alt weekly. I was asked to write several articles for more than one publication on topics that interested me and were a pleasure to do. I was asked to submit my portfolio for a corporate job. I was asked to send in writing samples for an uptown gig. Swimming, floating, the tidal wave had finally, finally come in. No more vigils on dry, infertile sand.

But then, just as swiftly as the waters came, the course turned. The magazine I was to help edit for the summer folded after only one month of work. My weeks of temp were up. Word came that the corporate job decided to not hire anyone for the moment. The uptown gig fell through. I was alone again with my shovel, muddy, tired, and thirsty. I couldn't remember the taste of fresh water, and the sight of greener backyards. What next?

The only thing to do was pick up and keep digging. The last of the salt water on my face may have been tears. They were well-earned. When I walk the mornings, the houses stand at attention, faceless windows fitful for human bodies. My desktop overflows with résumés. I keep a spreadsheet of all the job applications I've submitted; the final count since the start of the new year reached 173. I've long lost count of the interviews.

It is June, and the sun shines, and the birds sing, and the rains come late afternoons. My desert story ends not with a tidal wave, but a tiny trickle. After a month of worry and walking, the corporate job which previously decided not to hire, called. If I wanted it, the job was mine.

Here now, in the waning green month of June, comes the Over.